I read once that all the stores were bursting with wares.
You forged a century without lifting a finger.
When you fell those shops fell too.
You skinned your own people; naked tomatoes
For long winter’s summer sauce.
Where is the magic in that?
But I’m not interested in magic.
I want to know your thoughts, need to know really,
As much as anything I’ve ever wondered. How?
How you slept? Ate?
Tore bread apart as if it was a throw-away act,
Like ripping a hole through the universe,
The demented seamstress.
You were a world eater, one of the only.
I want to know what you tasted,
They never thought to ask.
That’s my angle here, the moment when you knew
The jig was up, your father’s fantasy torn, gone
To pieces, bread bites on a moonlit lake,
Soon to be logged and sunk. This lake
Has been here a hundred years.
You ruined it for us all, the century was a cask
Of a hundred individual history tastes, flavorless tapas!
You know this now don’t you?
When the clouds organize like you imagined,
We look over horizons and see you, standing inert
Like a jaundiced monument, with a flag in your hands
Plunging the earth’s core, impaling our history,
A century and more. A hundred million chilly chests
Cheating nothing but their only dream’s deaths.
Image Source: Ben Sutherland on Flickr
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